Baby Of Mine

By Jane Toombs

THAT'S NOT MY BABY!

Ever since her ex–husband had stolen her baby, Linnea Swanson had waited for this moment. But the diaper–clad infant delivered by sexy Special Agent Talal Zohnir wasn't hers. Frustrated and disheartened, Linnea had no choice but to turn to the compelling special agent for help .

And to journey with him to a dangerous country that had positively medieval notions concerning women. But this tender–hearted, independent mother was prepared to do anything to both keep her gift daughter and find her beloved birth child even if it meant marrying Talal!

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460869147

Jane Toombs

Jane's Silhouette Special Edition, The Missing Heir, is her 19th book for Harlequin and Silhouette, and her 69th published book, counting print and electronic books. Though she does write paranormal fantasies, mysteries, and horror, most of her stories are contemporary or historical romances. Jane began writing as a child, encouraged by her father, who was a published non-fiction author. He was a marvelous editor, praising what was good before pointing out the flaws needing correction, giving her confidence in her ability. He became totally deaf at the age of 35 and, since Jane wasn't born until he was 40, his deafness also helped her as a budding writer. The only way to communicate with her father was in writing. In order to encourage her-and others-to talk to him, he became adept at asking questions that made people want to take the trouble to scribble on the yellow legal pad he always had at hand. For example, she remembers him asking her what she'd seen while walking to school. This caused her to take notice of what she did see in order to be able to have something to tell him. So at an early age she learned specific observation, a necessary tool for any writer. Jane grew up in a small town in Michigan's Upper Peninsula on the shore of Lake Superior, one she's recently returned to after many years away. She has five children by her first husband and collected two stepchildren when she married her second husband. These seven have produced seven grandchildren. One of the grandchildren just had a baby boy which makes Jane-gasp!-a great-grandmother, something she isn't quite used to. She and Elmer, who went to school with her, now live together very happily in their old hometown. They were acquired by a calico cat named Kinko three years ago, and she rules them with an iron paw. Jane enjoys hearing from readers. She can be reached by email at [e-mail].

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Chapter One

Why didn’t it rain? The clouds, dark and ominous, obscured the hot July sun, and thunder muttered in the distance. Not a leaf stirred in the humid, oppressive air. Standing on her small patio at the rear of her condo, Linnea Swanson breathed in earthy dampness along with the sharp scent of geraniums seeping through the wooden wall screening the neighboring patio.

The few flowers she’d planted had been eaten by deer. The only blooms they didn’t seem to relish were the spring daffodils, long gone by now. She minded, but she didn’t blame the deer. The condo where she’d chosen to live had been built, after all, in a woods, and the deer had been here first.

She’d left the city for upstate New York more than two years ago, and the woods had appealed to her then as a place to hide while she gathered the strength to go on. She’d been in limbo ever since. Could it possibly be true the agony of waiting and wondering was coming to an end? Linnea glanced at the brooding sky and sighed. How much longer?

Looking at her watch, she saw it was after five. Before she thought about dinner, she ought to go in and put the finishing touches on the final illustration she was doing for the book on ancient Greek medicine. There was something not quite right about the way she’d drawn Galen’s hands as the old Greek physician pointed out the sections of the brain. The contract for the illustrations was the most lucrative yet and she could use the final payment money. Thank God she’d found a way to make her minor artistic talent pay, because the money in the Manhattan bank was for another purpose and she refused to touch it to live on.

No matter how much she’d spent from that special account, though, she hadn’t been successful in her search. Every agency she’d contacted came to the same dead end. And heaven only knows how many letters she’d written to no avail to various politicians in Washington. If the senator from her district hadn’t suddenly needed a weapon to use against the president’s policy concerning the Middle East, especially Kholi, she’d be no further ahead.

But was she really ahead? True, there’d been the encouraging phone call from the senator’s office with a follow-up letter. That had been a month ago. Since then, nothing.

A streak of lightning split the clouds. Seconds later, thunder rolled, closer now. Linnea put out her hand, palm up, hoping to feel drops of rain. When none fell, she shook her head, opened the screen door to the kitchen and went inside. Dear God, she was tired of waiting.

As Talal Zohir turned his red sports car off the highway onto a local road, thunder growled a warning. Eyeing the ever-darker clouds, he pulled over to the shoulder.

Speaking in Arabic, he said, Time to put up the top if we don’t want to get wet.

The tiny girl seat-belted in next to him looked confused until he activated the mechanism, then shrank into herself, gazing upward with fearful fascination as the top slid into place. He took her hand in his and she gripped his forefinger tightly.

It’s all right, he said, smiling as reassuringly as he could. I’m here, nothing will hurt you. She didn’t offer a smile in return—he had yet to see her smile—but she did relax her grip on his finger.

As he pulled back onto the road, Talal began looking for a phone. He hadn’t called from Washington because he wasn’t certain whether he’d arrive at a reasonable hour today, in which case he’d planned to spend the night somewhere in the area and delay until tomorrow before calling the woman. But they’d gotten an early start, traffic had been remarkably light, the various state highway patrols hadn’t spotted him and here they were.

He grinned, remembering his brother’s prediction that red cars driven by speeding drivers were certain ticket getters. So far, on this present visit to the U.S., at least, he’d proven Zeid wrong.

The girl tugged at his sleeve. He turned to her, raising his eyebrows. What is it, Yasmin? he asked in Arabic.

Mama? she said.

Soon, he told her.

She lowered her head, bringing the bent knuckle of her forefinger to her mouth.

Don’t be afraid, he said, knowing she was. Poor little thing, her world had changed so drastically in the past month that it was a wonder she’d been able to adapt at all. He admired her courage. Despite being surrounded by strangers in what was for her increasingly alien surroundings, never once had she cried. In the short time they’d been together, he’d grown attached to Yasmin.

Not that he relished the assignment his great-uncle had given him. But, as they said in Kholi, A narrow house can accommodate a hundred friends and a wide palace cannot accommodate two enemies. It doesn’t pay to anger your king, even if he is a relative. Or, perhaps, especially if he is. When he commands, you don’t argue.

Of course, there was always a bonus waiting for him in America—in Nevada, to be specific. He intended to finish his mission here in New York as quickly as possible and fly west immediately.

Catching sight of a street name, Talal braked and swerved to the left. Almost immediately the address he sought turned up on his right. He shook his head. Not a phone anywhere in sight. He slowed and pulled to the curb, debating whether or not to go in search of a phone before arriving on the woman’s doorstep. No, he was here, best to complete the mission. Obviously she would have been notified by someone in Washington that he’d be coming.

He drove into the parking lot, found the slot that matched the woman’s condo number and noted a car occupied it. Good, she was home. He parked in an empty slot and coaxed a reluctant Yasmin from the car. You’re tired, I’ll carry you, he told her still speaking in Arabic.

She put her arms around his neck, nestling against him trustingly, and he realized how much he was going to miss her. His time with Yasmin had taught him how different little girls were from little boys. Even at eight months of age, Danny had never seemed fragile to him, but in his arms, three-year-old Yasmin felt as frail as the baby bird he’d once rescued when he was a child and carried home in his hands. He’d raised it despite his grandmother’s objections and tried not to cry when the bird finally flew away for good.

But Yasmin didn’t need him to raise her.

A few drops of rain fell as he carried her toward the door marked with the proper number. Though his watch told him it was only six, the lowering sky darkened the waning day to twilight. The rumble of thunder sounded farther off now; perhaps the storm would pass them by.

He paused on the mat outside the door, noting light shining from the tiny windows on either side before he pushed the bell. He heard it ring faintly inside, then footsteps approached the door. Yasmin squirmed in his arms, so he eased her down onto her feet. She promptly took refuge behind him.

Linnea flicked on the outside.light, glancing through one of the windows before unlocking the door. The neighborhood was safe enough, but you never knew. She drew in her breath at the sight of the dark-haired man standing there. Though he wore an open-necked shirt and casual pants rather than the Muslim robe and headdress, she knew he was an Arab. Good-looking, of course—like Malik, they always were. Could he be an emissary of Malik’s?

Wary, she put the chain on, unlocked the door, eased it ajar and peered through the opening. What do you want? she demanded.

Are you Linnea Khaldun? he asked, instead of replying.

How well she knew that Middle Eastern arrogance. My name is no longer Khaldun, she said coolly. "I am Linnea Swanson. Who are you?"

Talal Zohir. Please, don’t be frightened. I regret I was unable to call ahead, but I’m the one you must be expecting.

Linnea’s heart began to pound. Was it possible...? She’d thought he was alone, but now she strained to see if anyone else was there. Glimpsing something move down low behind him, she caught her breath. A child! Undoing the chain, she flung the door open, crying, Did you bring her?

Yes, he said. I’ve brought your daughter.

Amber eyes set in a tiny heart-shaped face peered around the man’s leg. Yasmin? Linnea whispered, crouching and holding out her arms. Yasmin!

He urged the child toward her, and Linnea reached and gathered the girl into her arms, tears forming in her eyes. She felt the child stiffly resisting her embrace and murmured brokenly, I’m your mother, darling. Your mama.

Mama? Yasmin spoke so softly Linnea almost didn’t hear her.

She doesn’t understand English, the man said. "Only Arabic. But the word mama is the same in nearly all languages."

An almost forgotten Arabic word for yes slid into Linnea’s mind. "Aiwa," she said. "Aiwa, Mama."

Yasmin melted against her and clung fiercely. Lifting her, blinking back tears, Linnea rose and carried the little girl inside, only half aware of the man following her and closing the door behind them.

Dropping onto the couch, Linnea cuddled Yasmin, crooning to her wordlessly, her heart too full to speak. The long and fruitless search was over, the miracle she’d prayed for had arrived. At last her daughter was back in her arms where she belonged. She’d never let her go again.

Brilliant light flashed through the windows, and the lamps flickered and went out as a rattling clap of thunder shook the house. Yasmin cried out in alarm, and in the dark, Linnea stroked her hair, trying to calm her as rain pelted against the windows.

The man spoke soothingly in Arabic, and Linnea remembered from her meager store of the language that one of the words meant safe. The child’s frantic grip eased slightly. Apparently she trusted the man. What was his name? Talal something.

Candles? he asked.

On the fireplace mantel in holders, Linnea said. The matches are in the silver box at one end.

Talal found the matches and lit first one candle, then the other. He carried the second over to the couch and set it on the coffee table. In the flickering light the woman’s.face looked soft and luminous, her amber eyes reflecting the candle flame. Eyes like her daughter’s.

He extracted a tiny, worn silver ring from his pocket and offered it to her on his palm. Yasmin’s baby ring, he said. I thought it best to keep it safe until I brought her to you.

She stared at the ring for long moments before she reached to take it. For some reason the brief brush of her fingers against his palm tingled through him. He watched her try to slip the ring on Yasmin’s finger and saw it fit only the smallest one.

My grandmother’s baby ring, she said softly. My mother’s and then mine. Yasmin was wearing it when she was—was taken. Thank you for returning the ring. And for— Her voice broke and she shook her head, unable to go on.

He bowed slightly. My duty and my pleasure to bring her to her mother. Yasmin is a beautiful child, a daughter to be proud of. I regret— He spread his hands in lieu of words, recalling his great-uncle’s bluntness.

Never trust a Khaldun. Leave it to them to endanger our country’s position with America. If that troublemaker Malik wasn’t dead I swear I’d have him beheaded. Thanks to Allah we’ve found the missing child and so can return her to show our good faith.

Talal pulled out Yasmin’s American birth certificate, given to him with the ring, and placed it on the table. Yasmin, who’d been examining the ring on her finger, looked up at him and reached out a hand, patting the couch cushion, asking without words for him to sit beside her mother.

He hesitated, despite the pleading in Yasmin’s eyes. The woman’s attitude toward him had been distinctly hostile until she’d realized her daughter was with him.

Do sit down, Linnea said, apparently understanding what Yasmin wanted.

He wondered how much Arabic she knew. Surely some. Malik Khaldun would have insisted his wife learn his language.

As if reading his mind, she said, I don’t recall very many Arabic words, but it’s obvious Yasmin feels more secure with you near her.

He eased down, leaving a gap between the two of them, finding, to his surprise, that he wished he could be close enough to feel her warmth against him.

Bad idea. The Kholi phrase for American girls translated as play-pretties. Linnea was pretty enough, but any fool could see she was no plaything. Even Malik, the great seducer, had had to marry her to accomplish his goal. Talal didn’t plan to marry again. Ever.

She is beautiful, isn’t she? Linnea said, positioning Yasmin slightly away from her while, in the candlelight, she gazed at the little girl with such love that Talal’s throat constricted. Taken back to his troubled childhood, he wondered if his own mother had ever looked at him like that. I’ll never tire of looking at her sweet face, Linnea said. I’ve missed her so. Tears gleamed in her eyes and she blinked them away.

Still immersed in the past, Talal was asking himself if his mother could have missed him so acutely, when the lights came back on. As his vision adjusted to the sudden brightness, he watched, perplexed, while Linnea’s expression as she gazed at Yasmin changed to frowning confusion, then stark disbelief. No, she whispered. Oh, please God, no.

He leaned toward her, concerned, and she looked away from the child, shot him an accusing glance and gasped hoarsely, She can’t be—she isn’t—she’s not my Yasmin, she’s not my daughter.

As if understanding every word, Yasmin stared fearfully from one to the other of them. She opened her mouth and screamed, a cry of terrified anguish. Biting her lip, Linnea clasped the girl against her breast once more.

See what you’ve done! she snapped at him, then turned her attention to the child, rocking back and forth, holding Yasmin close while she murmured, There, there, sweetheart. Nothing’s your fault. I won’t let anything happen to you, you’re safe with me, you’ll always be safe with me. Always. No matter what.

Apparently understanding her meaning, if not the words, Yasmin nestled against her.

Was this woman crazy? Talal asked himself. What had he done other than act as the king’s emissary and bring the child to her? She’d said herself the ring came from her family, and he’d delivered Yasmin’s birth certificate, issued by New York State, clearly stating Linnea Swanson was the baby’s mother and Malik Khaldun the father. This child was exactly the right age, and his great-uncle had assured him the girl was Yasmin Khaldun. The king’s word could be trusted implicitly; beyond any doubt he believed the child was Linnea’s daughter. Had the king been fooled by the man who’d brought the child to him? Talal shook his head—it would be suicidal for any Kholi to hoodwink the king.

He’d seen for himself that mother and child had similar and unusual tawny eyes. Though Linnea’s hair was several shades lighter than Yasmin’s chestnut brown, mother and child both had slightly curly hair. What had led Linnea to suddenly reject the daughter she’d welcomed so lovingly? A child she hadn’t set eyes on since the girl was a three-month-old baby.

Babies grow and change, he said, thinking of going-on-two-year-old Danny. My son—

Linnea, her cheek pressed against Yasmin’s hair, said, Shut up. Please just shut up. I don’t want you to upset her again.

Couldn’t the idiot see that any discussion now might set Yasmin off again? Linnea asked herself. Whatever plot those miserable Kholis had devised, the little girl was innocent. A sweet, lovable innocent. Her warmth and weight felt so good, so right in Linnea’s arms. The child may not be—wasn’t—her Yasmin, but she’d never allow anyone to hurt the poor little thing. Cuddling her protectively, Linnea vowed she wouldn’t give up Yasmin. If she did, the child would undoubtedly be taken back to Kholi—an unthinkable fate for a girl.

Besides, how could she ever part with this waif who needed her so desperately?

Her attention focused on Yasmin, Linnea barely noticed Talal pacing back and forth in her living room, but she sensed his annoyance and impatience disturbing the air around her. At least he had the sense to keep his mouth shut. Other than that, she found nothing in his favor. Kholi men were all alike—domineering, selfish and not to be trusted.

Yasmin relaxed against her, eyes closing, until at last she slept. Rising carefully from the couch, Linnea carried her to the master bedroom, only a few steps down the hall. She eased Yasmin onto the bed and covered her with a quilt. One edge of the bed was against the wall, and she barricaded the open side with bolsters and pillows to prevent the girl from rolling off in her sleep.

For a long moment she stood looking down at the sleeping child in the dim light filtering in from the hall. Rain still pattered against the windows, but gently now. Soothingly. Though the old, familiar ache had returned to her heart, the pain of loss was lessened by the sight of Yasmin asleep in her bed.

I’ll never give up searching for the daughter I gave birth to, she told herself, but this Yasmin is also mine—my gift daughter.

At the door she hesitated, deciding to leave it open. If the girl roused from hearing them talk it would be more reassuring than waking to find herself shut into an unknown room alone.

She sleeps? Talal asked in a low voice when she returned to the living room.

Linnea nodded and squared off to confront him. He’d giving up pacing and was now leaning against the mantel as though he hadn’t a care in the world. The scowl on his face, though, belied the casual pose.

Why did you bring me the wrong child? she asked bluntly.

Why do you insist she is? he countered. You have the birth certificate and the ring. She exactly matches your description of your daughter.

A frisson of fear shot through her at his words. The ring had been her baby’s. Where had this man acquired it? And the birth certificate?

As if anticipating her question, Talal said, The king of Kholi himself gave me the ring and birth certificate. They, with the child, came from someone who swore on his life that the girl was Yasmin Khaldun, an orphan. As the king, my great-uncle’s word is above question.

Orphan. Malik is dead? she asked in surprise, forgetting for the moment that the orphan in question wasn’t the daughter he’d fathered.

Malik Khaldun was accidentally shot and killed over a year ago, Talal said. Something in his voice made her doubt the shooting had been an accident, but in her relief at knowing her ex-husband would never menace her again she didn’t question what had been said.

Belatedly she realized what Talal had said—the king was his great-uncle. That would make him a member of the royal family, one of those Zohirs Malik had hated. You’re a. Zohir? she asked.